


Tequila Talking

by chemm80



Category: In Plain Sight, Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Mary Shannon in a Santa Fe motel room with a bottle of good tequila.  So PWP, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tequila Talking

Dean pulls the Impala into the hotel’s drive-through and eyes the brightly lit, Mexican-tiled lobby dubiously through the double glass doors. It’s “All Suites” and a lot nicer than what he’s used to. No doubt a hell of a lot more expensive, too, but everything cheap is already full.

Not that anything’s very cheap here. Just his luck to get stuck in a record-breaking blizzard in New Mexico, when right now he needs to get his ass to fucking sunny California as quickly as possible. The lunar cycle waits for no man, least of all Dean Winchester.

Santa Fe: The City Different. Dean’s heard that shit at least a dozen times on the radio, seen it on billboards. He thinks all the hype is probably just overcompensation for the fact that all the building fronts are vaguely the same, every one of them spackled over with some kind of dull brown fake adobe, even the franchises, like Pep Boys. An auto parts store should _not_ look like a fucking pueblo, is all he’s saying.

He checks in and yeah, expensive as he thought, but he’s tired and so over sliding around on the icy streets; he’s just looking for any kind of bed for the night. Besides, he figures Dean Harrison won’t mind the extravagance. He’s sliding the card back into his wallet when the front doors roll open.

A woman blows in on a gust of wind, pushing her long hair out of her face. Dean catalogs her appearance out of habit, but also because she’s fucking hot. She’s about his age, maybe a little older, tall and blonde, with a western-style belt over tight jeans showing from underneath her open sheepskin coat.

She strides up to the desk next to Dean and slaps a hand down onto the counter.

“Please tell me you’ve got a room,” she says, and _Jesus_ , her voice is as sexy as the rest of her, smooth and rich as warm butter.

The guy behind the counter is young, scrawny and pimply-faced, and he lets his mouth hang open for just a second, then starts shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just gave our last room to this gentleman,” he stammers.

She makes a face like she’s been punched and collapses dramatically, draping herself over the counter and reaching for the clerk’s hand. Dean absently notes the clerk’s flinch, then uses the opportunity to check out her ass. He kind of has to, really, with her leaning over like that.

Then he has to do a complete reassessment when the position causes her coattail to lift enough for Dean to see she has a gun on her belt, a Glock 22, or possibly a 23. She’s a cop then, probably a fed of some sort.

Or possibly a really well-armed actress, Dean allows, considering the drama.

“Oh, God,” she sighs, raising her head. “Don’t make me go back out there. Isn’t there anything?” She pauses, straightens up and grabs the lapels of her coat. “What if I show you my boobs?”

The clerk looks like he’s having trouble breathing. Dean smirks, enjoying the show, as the clerk finally manages to form words.

“I…you have…I’m sure they’re very nice, ma’am, but I really don’t have anything left. The storm…I could call around?”

Dean has to admire his restraint, really. He contemplates the actress scenario again, considering cops this hot are almost non-existent, in Dean’s experience.

She lets her head fall for a second and then straightens up, completely in control again, emo turned off like a switch. She sighs.

“I know, I know…forget it. There’s nothing. I’ve been everywhere.”

She takes a second to give Dean a sidelong glance tinged with annoyance, like she’s wondering why he’s still standing there.

Dean sighs. He’s so going to regret this.

“Two beds, right?” Dean asks, stepping closer, speaking to the clerk.

The kid nods, eyes ticking back and forth between Dean and the woman like he can’t decide whether he’s turned on or scared. Maybe he’s smarter than Dean figured him for, because as soon as Dean gets within arm’s-length, the woman shifts her body to face Dean, backing the hip with the gun on it away from Dean so that it’s within her easy reach—and out of his. The cop thing is looking pretty damned likely.

“Yes, sir…two queens,” the clerk nods at Dean, wide-eyed.

Dean looks at the floor for a beat or two, then back at the woman, who’s now eyeing him narrowly.

“Bed’s yours, if you want it,” Dean says, making full eye contact and smiling mildly. _No threat here, see?_

She rocks back on her heels a bit and gives Dean a steady look. It’s not exactly a once-over—more of a complete scan and instantaneous character assessment, which appears to find him severely lacking. Definitely a cop, Dean thinks.

Her face changes, then, and Dean couldn’t say what the difference is, but he tenses like he’s expecting an attack. Because he sort of is.

“Aw, so you’re taking me in out of the cold, big boy?” she purrs, with a little smile that’s anything but happy. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

Dean narrows his eyes slightly, not sure exactly what her game is for a second, then he gets a grip, turns the sarcasm back on her.

“Sweetheart, what goodness I have is situated a little lower down,” he says, with a smirk that makes his meaning clear.

She breathes out a little chuckle as she drops her eyes, nodding slightly before she looks back up at him, head tilted to one side.

“And why…” she says, as she moves toward him, steps close enough that she has to tip her head back a little to look him in the eye. “…would I want to spend the night with a big, bad man like yourself?”

Dean runs his tongue across his lips, watches her track the motion, corner of her mouth twitching slightly. He can smell her, she’s standing so close, and it’s really kind of nice, no heavy perfumed scent, just…clean, he thinks, distracted for a moment, but then he snaps out of it.

“Maybe you could show me the error of my ways,” Dean says, letting his voice drop low and intimate.

“Could probably show you a lot of things,” she replies in a voice like sex itself, without taking her eyes from his, and Dean’s not really sure at this point whether she’s flirting with him or fucking with him—it feels like a little of both. It _feels_ like they crossed a line here somewhere, like two circling predators who’ve suddenly slipped into a whole different kind of stalking.

They’ve got a steady gaze-lock going when the desk clerk suddenly clears his throat.

“Two keys, then?”

****

The elevator ride is silent, air heavy with a wary tension, and Dean passes the time by trying to check out her ass under the hem of her coat. It startles him a little when she speaks.

“I have a gun and I know how to use it,” she says, without taking her eyes off the elevator doors in front of her. _Me, too_ , comes immediately to mind, but he thinks better of saying it out loud, remembering at the last minute that he’s more than likely talking to an officer of the law. He exhales short and sharp, smiling slightly.

“Duly noted. Look…we’re stuck here, might as well be civil. I’m Dean,” he says, dipping his head forward a little, trying to see her face, draw her eyes to him. She doesn’t bite, but he can see her expression soften ever so slightly, the tic of a half smile.

“Mary Sheppard,” she says. “You got a last name? You know, in case I need to hunt you down and cut your balls off later?” she finishes, finally looking over at him, fake smiling, her voice sliding back into that double-edged tone from before.

“Harrison,” he says, can’t help smiling back, but he’s careful to keep the name the same as the one he checked in under. Dean knows she didn’t see the credit card, but that doesn’t mean she won’t check later. A badge buys you an awful lot of leeway, he knows firsthand.

The elevator opens and Dean motions her ahead of him as he shoulders his duffle. There’s a brief, silent face-off inside the room over who gets the bed nearest the door. Dean wants it, but when he catches the tiny flash of alarm on her face as she stares him down, he gives in. She has a gun, after all, and beyond that he doesn’t really want her feeling trapped.

Dean slings his bag to the floor and Mary makes a show of setting her gun down within reach on the nightstand, eyeing Dean.

Dean smirks.

“Don’t worry, Agent Sheppard. I’m harmless…promise,” he says, lacing the words with a tone that’s anything but innocent.

Tiniest tic of surprise at the title, then her face relaxes back into the hard shell of snark that seems to be her default mode.

“Yeah, I sensed that about you right away, that white knight vibe you’ve got goin’ on,” she says, eyeing him. “And it’s Marshal, not Agent.”

Dean nods, not really sure what to say to that. Her smile is sardonic and he looks away, rummages through his bag, sorting the filthy clothes from the merely previously worn, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She stands there for a minute with her hands on her hips, looking annoyed and disgusted with everything in general, then finally snatches up the TV remote and flops down on the bed.

_Wow_ , Dean thinks. This is gonna be a fun night. But _Christ_ , what possessed him to think that a sleepover with a cop was a good idea in the first place? It’s no more than he fucking deserves.

“I need a shower,” Dean mutters. “Unless you…?” Dean raises his eyebrows, chivalry not quite dead, but pretty sorely taxed right at the moment.

“No, please…” she motions him toward the bathroom. Then she rolls her eyes and mutters, “The sooner the better.”

So much for chivalry. He shakes his head, grabs a pair of (mostly) clean shorts and a t-shirt and heads for the bathroom.

When he comes out, she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed with his knife held casually in her hands. Dean freezes. She eyes him from under her brows.

“What? Eight inches? Nine?” she says, testing the edge against the pad of her finger. “Impressive. Overcompensating for something, are we?”

Dean grits his teeth. He’s not threatened—marshal or no, he’s pretty sure he could take it from her without a scratch to either of them, and as far as he knows the knife isn’t illegal—it’s just…a little too personal, her touching his things without asking, stuff that she really doesn’t even need to know about. He’s really glad that he left everything incriminating in the car, but this pisses him off.

Dean lets his anger show through a little, staring her down, but she throws his look back at him, not giving an inch, and for a minute he _wants_ to take her up on the challenge. His face heats with it, the urge to hold her down and take his knife away from her, show her who she’s messing with….but he gets control of that in a hurry. Federal marshal, gun, badge…too many possible complications.

He stalks slowly around and between the two beds, holding her gaze as he does.

“I’ll tell you what, Marshal. How about you keep your hands off my equipment and I’ll do the same for you, okay?” he says, low and just barely suggestive, with a hard enough edge to let her know he’s deadly serious in spite of the wordplay. He holds his hand out for the knife.

She doesn’t give it to him—which is smart, he has to admit, considering he could be a serial killer for all she knows—just tosses it onto the same pillow she took it out from under.

“I’m not really interested in your ‘equipment,’” she says, shrugging. “Just bored. There’s not even any fucking TV.”

He raises his eyebrows at that, letting her change the subject.

“Called the desk…they said the dish is full of snow…no reception,” she continues.

Dean sighs and picks up his knife, flopping down onto his bed, wondering just how much further down the scale of awkward the night has slipped with that revelation. He looks at his reflection in the shine of the blade for a minute. He sighs and shoves it back under his pillow.

They sit there and stare at their respective sections of wall for what seems like a long time. Dean’s tired, but it’s that special brand of exhaustion that he knows too well won’t let him sleep until he winds down for an hour or two. Maybe more, considering the tension in the room.

Mary suddenly makes a disgusted noise.

“Oh my God, are you going to sit over there and pout all night? Here,” she says, tossing a plastic package at Dean. It hits him noisily in the chest. “I cleaned out the vending machine while you were in the shower.”

“Funyans. Awesome,” Dean comments, opening the bag, glad for something to do with his hands if nothing else.

“Yeah, well, there wasn’t much left,” Mary says, picking up a bag of pretzels from the nightstand. She eyes them dubiously for a second or two before tossing them aside in disgust.

Dean looks at her for a second, then gets up and digs through his pack, coming up with a bottle.

He cracks the seal and takes a drink, knows she’s watching him. For a minute he contemplates making her ask for it—it’d serve her right, the ornery bitch—but he finally gives it up. They’re stuck here for the night at least; no point in making things any worse than they already are.

“Straight tequila night if I ever saw one,” Dean comments, offering her the bottle.

She takes a hard look at it, like she’s trying to read the label.

“Viejo?”

She’s impressed, Dean can tell, though fuck if he knows why.

“Where the hell did you get that?” she continues, uncurling from her crouch on the bed and leaning toward him to see. She looks at him like he’s holding the Holy Grail or something, and Dean tightens his hold on the liquor instinctively, frowning a little.

Dean looks back at the bottle, shrugging.

“Why? What’s the big deal?”

“That’s an eighty-dollar bottle of tequila. Imported tequila. Hard to find,” she says.

“Uh…” Dean stammers, briefly fascinated by the hungry way she’s looking at the bottle in his hand, the way she runs her tongue across her lips. “Did a favor for a guy down in El Paso,” he finally finishes.

“Musta been some favor,” she mutters, holding one hand out in a gimme gesture.

Dean’s not a particular fan of tequila, but on a night like this he’s not gonna be particular about anything that’ll make the time go faster. He takes another swallow before he hands the bottle to her. Now that he thinks about it, it is pretty smooth, with kind of a smoky aftertaste that goes down real easy. Not bad for tequila.

Mary, on the other hand, drinks it like it’s heaven, closing her eyes and sighing as she swallows, and it’s a pretty sight, a hell of a lot nicer to look at than anything on TV would have been.

She hands him the bottle and settles back against the headboard, but Dean can tell she’s still watching him closely. He’s not offended or annoyed, now that he’s over the knife thing. She really has no reason to trust him.

They pass the bottle back and forth for a few minutes and then Mary sighs loudly.

“Well, this is so not how I saw my evening turning out,” she says.

“No? You had big plans?” Dean asks, just to have something to say.

“My _plan_ was to go back to the office for a couple of hours, then go home, have a couple of drinks and then go to bed.” She considers. “Actually, now that I think about it, I guess this is not all that different, is it?” she says, shrugging and stretching her hand out for the bottle.

“What…U.S. Marshals aren’t allowed to have lives?” Dean asks, holding it out by the neck to bridge the gap between the beds.

She makes a face.

“Oh, I have _permission_ to have a life. I just don’t have the ability,” she says dryly, gaze fixed on the picture on the opposite wall.

Dean nods, not sure if she even sees him do it, but he stays quiet.

After a minute or so, she seems to snap out of it a little and turns to look at Dean, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face him as she hands the tequila over.

“So what about you, Dean? Where’re you from?”

“All over,” Dean gives her the standard answer and takes a drink, eyeing her sidelong. She’s watching him with the “cop look” now, too sharp and too bright, although he thinks her eyes are starting to glaze a little from the alcohol.

“Yeah? What brings you to New Mexico, then?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s as good a place as any. What about you? What’d you do to get stranded in ‘the City Different’?”

He says the last scornfully and she snorts and rolls her eyes, letting him divert the conversation back to her for a moment.

“Business. Got delayed and didn’t make it out ahead of this freak storm.”

“Marshal business?”

“Yeah,” she says, smirking. “Top secret marshal business.”

“As in, you can tell me, but then you’d have to kill me?” Dean asks. It’s tired and trite, but he’s worn out and on his way to being drunk, so whatever.

“No, actually I have a neuralyzer in the pocket of my jacket. After I’m done with you, I just zap you with that and you forget you ever saw me,” she says, without missing a beat.

Dean has to smile at that. He sits up and swivels to face her across the space between the beds, mirroring her elbows-on-knees posture and holding out the bottle. She shakes her head and makes a negative hand gesture.

“’After you’re done with me’?” he questions, taking another drink. “Sounds ominous.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it. I might decide to let you off easy. I actually think I’m starting to like you, Dean.”

“Probably just the tequila talking,” Dean says.

“Probably,” she replies, with a tired smile.

They sit there face to face, looking at each other for a too-long moment, and it’s weird, but it feels kind of like something clicks, like there’s some sort of…recognition…between them. It makes no sense and he blames the tequila—for the weirdness, for making him stupid, for the way everything that happens after feels so slow-motion inevitable.

It happens when Mary shifts her weight forward suddenly and Dean reaches out instinctively to steady her, and before he really knows what’s going on he’s got a lapful of U.S. Marshal. Which is a situation he never expected to find himself in.

It’s a lot hotter than he would have thought.

His brain may be moving slow, but his body knows exactly what to do. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her in close, enjoying the feel of her thighs pressing against his, the soft give of her ass under his fingers, until he winds up with his face buried in her hair. Sharp intake of breath and _Christ_ , she smells good—clean and sweet, but not too heavy, reminds him of cut grass and summer wind past the Impala’s window—and wow, that’s kind of a weird thing for him to think, too, but as long as he’s blaming the tequila for shit, he might as well lay that down along with everything else.

She breathes against his ear for a second or two, then steadies herself with her forearms on his shoulders and pushes back so her face is almost touching his. He moves one hand up and threads his fingers into her long silky hair and pulls her in, kisses her, soft pressure of lips that quickly grows urgent as he probes softly with his tongue, asking her to open for him, and she does, rolling her tongue against his and sucking gently, then harder, humming breathy little moans against his mouth until they’re both panting harshly.

Mary pulls away gasping and he goes for her throat, sucking open-mouthed kisses against her neck, and she throws her head back, lets out the sexiest moan Dean’s ever heard, and Dean grunts his approval, presses her against his erection with his arm wrapped around her hips. She pushes back, grinds into him, writhing and twisting her hips, and Dean’s _so_ fucking hard already, tequila be damned.

Dean lies back, eases them down onto the bed, holding her on top of him. She kisses him, lets her weight press against his dick, then reaches down and rubs her palm across him through the thin barrier of his shorts.

He makes an approving noise into her mouth, surprised when she raises up and her weight is suddenly gone, leaving him feeling cold and kind of shell-shocked. He opens his eyes to see what the hell happened, and she’s kneeling on the end of the bed, already has her shirt off and working on getting her jeans down, and oh _hell_ yes. That works.

Dean sits up and starts pulling off his own clothes, but continues to watch Mary, enjoying the sight of her bare skin as it’s revealed. Not that she’s stripping all seductively or anything like that—in fact, she seems anxious to get to the main event, which works just fucking fine for Dean.

Dean gets naked in pretty much record time—he was wearing less when he started than she was—and he has time to sit on the bed watching her strip off her underwear. Blue, he notes, nothing fancy, but it’s still sexy as hell watching her slide it down her smooth thighs and off onto the floor.

It gets even better when she comes over and crawls onto the bed with him, straddles him, and Dean lies back, pulls her down with him, lets her body move high enough against his that he can mouth at her breasts, suck and bite gently at her nipples, drawn up hard and hot against his tongue. He trails a hand down between her legs while he sucks, teasing, playing in the wetness there— _Jesus, so much of it_ , so slick—and then he slides two fingers inside her, fucks them in and out slowly.

“Oh, fuck yes,” she moans in that smoky voice, inner muscles squeezing around Dean’s hand and that’s it. He needs more, right now. He pulls his fingers out of her, grinning at her little disappointed noise.

“Relax, I’ll get you there. C’mere,” he coaxes, urging her higher so she’s straddling his face.

He breathes in her rich smell, cock twitching as the scent of it hits the back of his throat, and he licks down the center of her and back up, groaning at the first taste, salt and musk, ocean and earth. He fits both palms against the smooth round of her ass and squeezes, pulls her against him, encouraging her closer, and she just goes for it, grabs hold of the headboard with both hands and fucking rides his tongue, his lips, wetting his face with her slick, nothing shy about it at all.

It’s amazingly hot, how into it she is, so _given_ to it, whimpering and gasping, pressing hard against his face, slick, wet folds like silk against his tongue. He lets her go with it, finding her rhythm and matching it, licking, sucking, sliding his tongue down to slip inside her every few strokes.

She’s getting close, he knows it, and he tightens his movements, just working his tongue against her and letting her set the pace while he pushes his fingers back inside her, curling his fingertips forward, fucking her hard and fast.

“Oh God…just like that,” she moans. “Don’t stop,” and he’s not about to; everything about this is hot, so good. He growls against her and she shudders, picking up her pace, harder and faster and so damned good. He’s got one hand inside her and the other is kneading her ass, mainly so he can keep his hands off his cock, leaking against his belly, and then she finally loses it with short, almost surprised-sounding cries of “oh” and “fuck,” squeezing hard around his fingers and pressing against his mouth and _Jesusfuck_ it’s so incredibly hot.

When she’s done, gets her breath back a little, she slides back down his body until she’s straddling his hips, smiles a satisfied smile at him and then drags her wet pussy up the length of his cock, pressing down, trapping it hot against his stomach and sliding up and down against him, and he slams his head back against the bed, squeezes his eyes shut, because _fuck_.

Before he’s got his breath back, before he can even think, she reaches down and guides him up inside her, biting her lip as she slides down his cock. He groans loud and long, and he’s got the tequila to thank for the fact that he doesn’t come right then, because _holy shit, hot_ and so fucking wet, _Christ_.

She rides him with exquisitely slow rolls of her hips, and he watches her eyes flutter closed as she rocks, his cock sliding in and out of her tight heat, over and over, like she’s got all night, and Dean guesses she fucking well does, or as long as he holds out anyway, because _God_ , the sounds she’s making, the way she feels…he’s a little surprised he hasn’t exploded by now.

A few minutes go by like that and Dean watches her face, sweaty and gorgeous, lips parted, panting hot and heavy as she works him. She leans forward then, grinding against him, breath and movements coming faster and harder, until she cries out and comes again, squeezing his cock, and it’s incredible, volcanic, and that’s it, he’s done. He digs his fingers into the firm muscle of her ass and holds her still while he thrusts up hard into her with a loud slap of skin, once, twice, then he comes with a groan, long hard pulses of pleasure. Mary moans, strains back against him while he does it, like she’s trying to contain him or something, hold him, keep him where she wants him somehow, before he finally finishes and she collapses on top of him.

They’re both panting and gasping, shaking through the aftershocks, and he strokes his fingers over her hair and back, a little surprised that she’s letting him do it—do any of this—but he keeps it up. She feels good, so soft, and he thinks he’d like to bottle the scent of her hair so he can take it with him for later.

A phone rings and they both jump. It’s Mary’s and she rolls off Dean and picks it up.

“Yeah,” she says into the phone, a little breathless still and not quite able to hide it. She flops onto her back beside Dean and he can hear a man’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Mary…trying to call you for hours…what…”

“Shit, Marshall, I’m sorry…I should have called, but…”

More talking on the other end of the phone, sharp nasal drawl, but slower and quieter than before.

“All right, I know. Yeah. Guess I’m stuck here until they get the roads cleared,” Mary says, breath mostly evened out. She pauses to listen.

“Motel room, Santa Fe. I’m fine,” Mary assures.

The voice on the other end starts up again, quacking on until it sounds vaguely like the “wah, wah, wah” of the adult’s voices from the Peanuts’ cartoons. Dean snorts quietly.

“Yeah, great, I’m good…great,” Mary trails off and Dean just chuckles quietly and shakes his head, because whatever the guy’s asked her, that’s gotta be the least convincing answer he’s ever heard.

Mary must realize it, too, because she screws up her face in a wince and lets the phone fall away from her ear, so that Dean hears every word of what the guy says next.

“Let me guess. You’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing, with the least appropriate person possible.”

“No! I’m…no,” she finishes lamely, shifting her eyes to Dean, then quickly presses the phone back to her ear and turns slightly away from him, like it’s giving her privacy or something. Dean rolls his eyes and grins, stretches, raising his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Yeah, will do. And Marshall? Thanks for checking up on me. Bye.”

“Who was that?” Dean asks. It’s a nosy question, maybe, but they’re naked together, so he figures they’re not exactly standing on ceremony here.

“My partner,” Mary replies, turning back to him and pushing herself up on one elbow, lazily trailing her fingers back and forth across Dean’s stomach. He shivers and she smiles.

“You two are kind of formal, aren’t you? You call your partner ‘Marshal’? Is that some kind of kinky thing you guys have going on?” Dean asks, closing his eyes as she leans over him, trails her tongue down, dips it into his navel.

“It’s his name,” she murmurs. She keeps moving downward, sucking at his skin as she goes, blazing a trail down his stomach with little bites and open-mouthed kisses.

“Marshal Marshall?” Dean says incredulously, gasping when she sinks her teeth into the skin just above his hipbone.

She slides lower, murmurs “Shut up,” and then seals her lips around the head of his cock.

And Dean absolutely does.


End file.
